Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Avery
I never thought I'd say this, but Brody “Pain-in-my-Ass” Hawkins might actually be on to something with his unorthodox methods.
As we sauntered into the picturesque winery, nestled among rolling hills and lush vineyards like something straight out of a Pinterest board—the same one I hadn’t wanted to visit because it didn’t have enough historical merit—I found myself grudgingly admitting, “Your approach isn't entirely without merit, you smug bastard.”
Brody's face lit up faster than a frat boy spotting the last keg at a party. That infuriating, triumphant smile of his spread across his stupidly handsome face, making my traitorous heart do a stupid little dance.
“Stick with me, Spark,” he drawled, his voice smoother than the finest Cabernet. “I'll show you that the best stories come from the heart, not just the head. And maybe I'll teach you how to loosen up that stick while we're at it.”
I sighed. “Don't let it go to your head, Hawkins. We're here to work, remember? Not to fulfill your 'Drunk History, Wine Edition’ fantasies.”
“Sweetheart, my fantasies involve a lot less wine and a lot more?—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I said, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach that felt suspiciously like butterflies on steroids.
The winery was a charming blend of rustic and modern, like a lumberjack who discovered moisturizer.
Weathered wooden beams contrasted against polished concrete floors, while sunlight streamed through windows large enough to make a vampire nervous. The air was heavy with the rich aroma of fermenting grapes, aged wood, and… was that Brody's cologne?
Damn him and his delightful smell.
As we joined the small group gathered for the tasting, I pulled out my notebook, ready to jot down every detail about the winemaking process, the history of the vineyard, and the unique characteristics of each vintage.
Brody, on the other hand, seemed more interested in chatting up our fellow tasters than taking notes. Typical.
The sommelier, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a knowledge of wine that would put Wikipedia to shame, began his well-rehearsed spiel about the first white we'd be tasting.
I was furiously scribbling when Brody's voice cut through the monologue like a hot knife through brie.
“So, what made you decide to become a sommelier? Was it a lifelong passion, or did you stumble into it after a wild night of Pinot and poor life choices?”
I cringed, certain the sommelier would be offended by the interruption. To my surprise, his face lit up, and he launched into a personal story about discovering his love for wine during a backpacking trip through Italy in his youth.
Apparently, it involved a beautiful Italian girl, a case of mistaken identity, and cheese wheel tossing down a hillside. Who knew sommeliers led such exciting lives?
As the tasting progressed, I found myself drawn into the conversations Brody initiated.
He had a knack for asking questions that went beyond the surface, drawing out stories that brought the moment to life in a way that talking about tasting notes and vintage years never could.
It was like watching a people whisperer in action, if people whisperers wore cargos that made their ass look criminally good.
When we moved on to the reds, Brody struck up a conversation with the winemaker herself, a woman named Elena, with weathered hands and eyes that sparkled with passion when she talked about her craft.
I couldn't help but notice how his own eyes lit up, matching her enthusiasm. It was… kind of adorable.
“What's the biggest challenge you face as a winemaker?” Brody asked, his genuine interest evident in his voice. “Besides resisting the urge to dive into a vat of Merlot on a bad day, of course.”
Elena threw her head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that perfectly matched the wine in our glasses.
“Oh, amour,” she said, “if I had a nickel for every time I wanted to do that, I'd be able to buy out the entire Bordeaux region.”
Watching Brody charm the pants off everyone in the room (hopefully not literally, though the thought did cross my mind), I realized that maybe, just maybe, there was more to this irritatingly attractive man than met the eye.
And as the wine warmed my belly and his laughter warmed my heart, I couldn't help but wonder if I was in danger of falling for more than just his unorthodox methods.
Shit. I was going to need a lot more wine for this.
Elena's face softened as she really considered the question. “You know, it's not just about the technical aspects of making wine. Hell, any imbécile with a chemistry set and a YouTube tutorial can ferment some grape juice.”
She paused, swirling the wine in her glass with the grace of a ballet dancer. “The real challenge? It's pouring your heart and soul into something, year after year, never knowing if people will truly appreciate it or if they'll just use it to, uh… how do you say… get sloshed at their cousin's wedding.”
I snorted, nearly shooting Cabernet out of my nose.
Elena continued, oblivious to my near-death-by-wine experience. “It's truly a labor of love, but sometimes it feels like shouting into the void, hoping someone will hear you.”
Her words struck a chord with me. Wasn't that exactly how I felt about my writing? Pouring my heart into stories, meticulously crafting each sentence, always wondering if readers would connect with my words the way I hoped they would.
Before I knew it, I found myself joining the conversation, my mouth apparently deciding to go rogue without consulting my brain first.
“I can relate to that,” I said, surprising myself with my openness. “As a writer, there's always that fear that your work won't resonate with people, that all your effort will go unnoticed. Like shouting your deepest secrets into a crowd, only to realize you're at a silent rave and everyone's got their headphones on.”
Elena nodded, a knowing smile on her face. “Ah, so you understand. It's a vulnerable thing, isn't it? Putting a piece of yourself out into the world.”
“It is,” I agreed, feeling an unexpected kinship with this woman I'd just met. Wine really was a social lubricant, wasn't it? “There's always that voice in the back of your head questioning if you're good enough, if your work matters.”
Brody's eyes met mine, a look of genuine interest and—was that respect?—in his gaze. “I didn't know you felt that way about your writing,” he said, his voice doing that annoyingly sexy thing where it got all low and rumbly.
I shrugged, suddenly feeling exposed. “Well, it's not exactly something I advertise. Professionalism and all that. Can't have people thinking I'm anything less than a cold, heartless word machine.”
Elena chuckled, the sound as warm and comforting as a glass of mulled wine on a cold night.
“Ah, but that vulnerability, that passion—that's what makes your work truly special. It's what connects people to what you create, whether it's in a bottle of wine or a beautifully written story.”
I mulled over her words as Brody swirled his glass, asking questions that made even Elena pause thoughtfully before answering. For someone I'd written off as shallow, he had an uncanny ability to cut straight to the heart of things, and as we continued to taste and talk, I found myself seeing Brody in a new light.
The way he engaged with people, drawing out their stories and passions, was more than just charm or a knack for good sound bites.
There was so much genuine curiosity there, a desire to understand people. It was… dare I say it? Kind of hot.
When the tasting ended, I felt a buzz that had nothing to do with the wine and a whole lot to do with the man standing next to me.
My mind was whirling with ideas for how to approach my newest article, ways to weave the personal stories we'd heard into a narrative that would bring the winery to life for my readers.
“So,” Brody said as we strolled out into the late afternoon sun, his hand briefly touching the small of my back, making a warmth radiate through me, “what did you think? Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, right?”
I hesitated, but there was something about the open, expectant look on his face that made me want to be honest. That, and the fact that my wine-loosened tongue seemed determined to spill all my secrets.
“It was… enlightening,” I conceded. “I have to admit, your approach brought out aspects of the winery I would have missed if I'd stuck to my usual methods.”
Brody's face broke into a genuine smile, not his usual smirk. “High praise indeed from the queen of rules,” he teased, but there was no malice in his tone.
I was about to retort with a witty wine-fueled comeback when Brody's expression shifted to one of mischievous excitement. It was the kind of look that made my lady parts tingle and my common sense run for the hills.
“Now, don't freak out,” he said, his voice dripping with faux innocence, “but I've got one more surprise planned for today.”
Alarm bells immediately started ringing in my head. “Brody,” I said slowly, “what did you do? If you've hired a stripper sommelier, I swear to God…”
He grinned, and, with a flourish worthy of a magician revealing his final trick, he pointed to a colorful hot air balloon being inflated in a nearby field. It was so bright and cheerful, it looked like a rainbow had projectile vomited all over it.
“I thought we could get a bird's-eye view of the vineyard,” he announced proudly. “You know, for the article. And definitely not because I want to see you clinging to me in terror at 2,000 feet.”
My stomach dropped. Heights were not my thing. I mean, it wasn’t like I was terrified, but there was a definite strong discomfort there, and the idea of floating in a wicker basket thousands of feet in the air was about as appealing as dental work performed by Edward Scissorhands.
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “No way, no how, not in a million years, not if you paid me in wine and chocolate.”
“Come on, Avery,” Brody cajoled, his voice a seductive purr that made my knees weak. “I thought you wanted adventure. Isn't that what this whole trip is about? Stepping out of our comfort zones? Unless your idea of adventure is trying a new flavor of La Croix…”
Ugh, this infuriating man.
I bit my lip, torn between my fear and the undeniable logic of his argument. We had agreed to compromise between our two travel styles, after all. And the view would undoubtedly be spectacular…
“Fine,” I relented, my voice coming out as more of a squeak than I'd have liked. “But if I die, I'm coming back to haunt you. And not in a cute Casper the Friendly Ghost way. I'm talking full-on Poltergeist, rearranging your furniture and writing creepy messages on your mirror.”
Brody's answering laugh was warm and rich, like a cup of hot chocolate spiked with bourbon.
“Deal. I promise I'll keep you safe. Scout's honor.” He held up his hand in what I'm pretty sure was the Vulcan salute, not the Scout's sign.
As we approached the balloon, my heart was pounding so hard I was sure Brody could hear it. Hell, they could probably hear it back at the winery.
The basket looked impossibly small—thoughts of a picnic hamper on steroids drifting through my mind. The burners were intimidatingly loud, roaring like a dragon with indigestion.
I gripped the edge tightly as we climbed in, my knuckles white with tension.
“Hey,” Brody said softly, his hand coming to rest reassuringly on my arm.
The warmth of his touch sent an electric current through my body, making me wonder if I was more afraid of the height or my growing attraction to this exasperating man.
“It's going to be okay. Just breathe. And if you feel the need to scream, go for it. I'll just tell people we're reenacting that scene from Titanic .”
As the balloon began to rise, I found myself torn between terror at the increasing distance between us and the ground and an acute awareness of Brody's proximity in the small basket.
His cologne… that citrus-y bliss, like there was an orange grove somewhere below, was making my head spin more than the altitude.
But as we kept rising, the beauty of the landscape below began to overtake my fear.
The hodgepodge of vineyards stretched out beneath us, a tapestry of greens and golds in the late afternoon light. The winery was like a toy nestled among the rolling hills, like looking at the world's most expensive model train set.
“Wow,” I breathed, my fear momentarily forgotten. “It's beautiful. Like Mother Nature got drunk on her own wine and went crazy with a paintbrush.”
Brody's voice was close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “See? Sometimes the most amazing views come when you're willing to take a risk.”
Somehow, the whole thing wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.
“Look, Spark,” Brody said suddenly, grabbing my hand. He pointed with his other hand to the horizon, nearly poking a hole in the ozone layer with his enthusiasm. “There's a waterfall over there.”
Maybe it was the altitude, or maybe I was finally losing my mind, but I let my fingers intertwine with his.
We stood there, hands linked, taking in the breathtaking view. I was acutely aware of the warmth of his palm against mine, the slight roughness of his skin. It felt like every nerve ending in my body had decided to relocate to my hand.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like I'm in a Bob Ross painting. So many happy little trees.”
Brody chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight into my core.
Later, as we began our descent, I realized with surprise that I was disappointed the ride was ending.
Brody must have noticed the change in my expression because his face broke into a knowing smile. It was the kind of smile that made me want to simultaneously kiss him and push him out of the balloon.
“Admit it,” he teased as we touched down, his voice dripping with smugness. “You enjoyed being spontaneous. It's okay, you can say it. I promise the fun police won't come and arrest you.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn't hide my smile. “It wasn't entirely terrible,” I conceded, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. “I mean, it beats watching paint dry or attending a lecture on the mating habits of sea slugs.”
“High praise indeed,” Brody laughed. “I'll take it. And next time, we'll aim for 'moderately enjoyable' or even 'somewhat pleasant'.”
As the sun began to set over the picturesque village far below, casting a warm golden glow over everything like an Instagram filter come to life, Brody and I stood close together, taking a few shots for Brody’s followers and my article.
The adrenaline of our successful adventure was still coursing through my veins, making everything feel a little sharper, a little more intense.
He steadied me as we stepped out of the balloon basket, his hand lingering on my waist like he was afraid I might float away if he let go.
Our eyes met, and something shifted, like the atmosphere had suddenly become charged with suppressed desires.
Brody's gaze dropped to my lips, a silent question hanging in the air. My heart raced faster than hummingbird wings, torn between the desire to close the distance and the fear of what it could mean.
“Avery,” Brody murmured, his voice husky and low. “I…”
“Don't,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “If you say something charming right now, I might do something stupid, like kiss you.”
His eyes lit up like a kid in a toy store. “Well, in that case… did you know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell?”
I couldn't help it—I burst out laughing. “You're such an idiot,” I said, but there was no heat in my words.
In that moment, with the taste of wine still on my lips and the memory of soaring above the vineyards fresh in my mind, I couldn’t stop wondering if Brody's lips would taste like Merlot or bad decisions.
Probably both.
But maybe, just maybe, Brody Hawkins was right. Sometimes the best stories—and the most unexpected connections—come when you’re willing to go off-script.
Still… was I really ready to risk it all for a chance at something more? Or would I end up as a cautionary tale?
Because one thing was for sure: if my heart and my head were about to throw down in the ultimate romantic cage match, I had a feeling there would be no survivors.